His Last Mistake
by Angela Pirate Ryoko
Summary: Eiji faces a complicated situation with Sing and reevaluates the way he's living his life. This takes place two years after the last chapter of Banana Fish and five years before Garden of Light.


His Last Mistake

by Angela

January 4, 2008

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_Run. Faster. His legs throb; his eyes burn with the sweat that rolls off his forehead. Gotta catch up. Otherwise, he knows he'll never see him again. Never again. Panic surges through his body._

Eiji woke, yanked from his dream by something invisible and terrifying. His heart throbbed and his skin was damp with sweat. He jolted upright, his breath catching at the realization that he wasn't alone.

Sing. The memory pulsed through him and his breath eased. He carefully pulled away from the boy who slept pressed against him, gently extracting his limbs from the tangle of arms, legs, and cotton sheets that trapped them. Dizzying pain in his head made him pause before sliding out of the bed; his foot bumped against an empty bottle as he stood. Unsteadily, he pulled on a pair of shorts and crept downstairs to the dark living room.

He'd dreamed of Ash again.

It was always the same dream: he was wandering through the streets of the lower east side, searching for Ash. Occasionally he'd almost see him – a flash of wheat-blond hair or a glimpse of his tattered jean jacket as he turned around a corner. Eiji would call out his name then, running and running but never catching up. He always woke violently, his heart racing and his mind addled with panic.

The feelings from the nightmare tended to linger, often washing his entire day with inky despair. Eiji took an unsteady breath and sat on the low sofa. Waking with a hangover was nothing new, but finding Sing in his bed was enough to momentarily push the dream from the front of his mind. He leaned his aching head in his hands, trying to remember everything that happened the night before. The entire evening was hazy – he couldn't remember when Sing came over or how much they'd had to drink.

He definitely remembered the sex. Eiji groaned as the images bombarded him: Sing's lithe body bending beneath him, his hips bucking eagerly. The taste of him lingered in Eiji's mouth, an alien bitterness that overpowered even the thick echo of too much alcohol.

Yet, even with Sing's body curled around him and the musky scent of spent sex enveloping them both, he'd dreamed of Ash. Eiji didn't want to think about what kind of person that made him.

The liquor left fuzzy blank spots in his memory when he tried to understand how and why it had happened. All he could remember was Sing's hands on his naked skin – skin he couldn't remember exposing – the boy's warm breath on his neck, and the pulsing waves of pleasure that punctuated every thrust as they came together.

Sing was only seventeen. The number made Eiji recoil. It was too young. Wrong. Only seventeen, and already he was bigger than Ash had been at nineteen. He'd grown so much in the past two years - he was tall and lean, his shoulders just starting to thicken, hinting at maturity he probably wouldn't reach for another few years. He'd recently taken up boxing, and already he was developing the body builder's physique that Ash had despised.

Eiji hadn't realized how weak and depraved his own loneliness could make him. He glanced at his bare feet and tried not to throw up.

"Why is it that everyone I care about drinks too much?" Sing appeared in the kitchen doorway, a tall glass of water in one hand. Eiji started; he hadn't heard him come down the steps, hadn't heard him in the kitchen. Sing gave the glass to Eiji and ran a hand through his hair to tame it. "Drink this," he ordered. His face was serious. Cautious.

Eiji obeyed, his eyes dropping to the floor. Sing wasn't wearing anything – the sheet knotted around his waist dragged over the floor behind him. One bare leg showed through the opening, exposed to his muscled thigh. Despite the way their bodies had known each other only hours before, the intimacy of all that skin unnerved Eiji. "Get dressed," he mumbled over the rim of the glass.

Sing studied him for a long moment. "Are you telling me to go home?" he asked flatly.

Eiji took a deep breath; he wondered if he really was going to be sick. Sing was his closest friend; sometimes it seemed like he was his only friend. Their mistake – his own mistake, really – was probably going to ruin that, so there was no point in mincing words now. "Yes," he said finally, unwilling to look up at him. "I think that's exactly what I'm telling you."

"No." Sing leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his bare chest. "You know as well as I do that if I walk out that door right now, you probably won't let me back in." His voice wavered slightly. "I can't take that chance."

Eiji should've expected an argument, but somehow Sing's refusal to obey surprised him. "It was a mistake, Sing. This isn't the way things are supposed to be between us." He was tired; he was sore. He didn't want to fight.

The boy's bitter laugh stung. "A mistake?" he asked harshly. "Because it might mess up the grand scheme of your life?" His voice was heavy with venom and Eiji realized that he'd been expecting this. Probably planning what to say. "No wait – you work in a video store. You haven't even bothered to cut your hair in over two years. I hope you realize that you can only make mistakes when you're also making something real."

His words stung. They were true, every last one. Eiji let his shaggy mop of hair fall over his face. He knew he was a mess. He'd been like that for a long time now, but there was no reason to drag Sing down, too. "That's why we shouldn't have –" he began in a weak voice, his hands muffling the sound.

"But we did." Sing's voice cracked; Eiji closed his eyes.

He tried to apologize, but no words came out.

Silence dragged out between them and Eiji listened to his friend's erratic breathing. "How long are you going to be like this?" Sing asked at last. The anger was gone – his words were echoed by deep sadness. "When was the last time you even took a picture?" he asked, motioning toward Eiji's cameras. They gathered dust on a shelf near the front door. "I'd bet good money that the film in those cameras have pictures of Ash on them."

Hearing his name said out loud was like a vise closing tight around Eiji's heart. They never talked about Ash. They'd been carefully stepping around the subject of their lost friend for years – tentatively avoiding any situation where it might be necessary to discuss him or any spaces in their souls that might still be occupied by him.

Sing noticed. "Hey," he insisted, enough in synch with Eiji to sense instantly when he started to withdraw. He sat next to him on the couch and jostled his knee with his own. "I think we should talk about it. All of it. You and Ash. You and me."

Eiji didn't speak. He didn't want to talk about Ash with Sing or anyone. In the beginning Ibé and Max had coaxed and prodded him, trying to get him to open up about his grief, but Eiji remained stoically silent. After a long time, they'd finally given up. The last thing he needed was to have Sing pick up where they left off.

The emotional wound he'd suffered when Ash was killed had only scabbed over – it was hard and sharp, but still sore. Eiji knew it wasn't even close to healed, but he'd accepted a long time ago that losing Ash wasn't something he was ever going to recover from. Sing's words were like ripping out stitches.

"You know we're going to have to talk about it eventually," Sing pressed quietly.

Eiji released a long breath. "There isn't anything to talk about," he said at last. His voice sounded cold. "There is no you and me."

He almost winced at the pain that flickered across Sing's face. "Last night –" he began in a terse voice.

"Was a mistake," Eiji repeated. "You said it yourself – we drank too much. We got carried away."

Sing scowled. "So you fuck all of your drinking buddies?" he asked scathingly.

Eiji closed his eyes, thinking of everyone he'd had a drink with: Alex, Bones. Tim, a guy from Ash's gang who lost his best friend around the same time Eiji lost Ash. Max. The idea of sleeping with any of them was ridiculous. "Of course not," he said softly.

He cared about Sing. _Really _cared. But he knew he'd never feel the way Sing wanted him to. It wasn't possible, and nights like the one they'd just had could only hurt and confuse. As it was, his head was muddled and spinning; tumultuous emotions welled inside of him. "Sing I've –" he faltered, not sure how to say what needed to be said. "I've never done –"

Sing looked faintly brighter, surprised. "In all this time?" he asked, his voice betraying his hope; it made Eiji's chest hurt. "There's been no one since Ash?"

The assumption wasn't unexpected, but it burned just the same.

He and Ash had never been lovers. It seemed to Eiji they'd been as much to each other and more, but somehow that particular boundary had never been crossed. He often wondered why, as much then as now. He had thought Ash's feelings were the same – every look, every touch had been laden with promise. But then everything ended, abruptly and unconsummated.

Eiji never had to explain the truth before. "No," he said, his headache swelling. "No one. Even before." He couldn't look at Sing, and was glad that neither of them had turned on the lights. He couldn't explain it, but he was ashamed to admit that he and Ash hadn't been together that way. He'd never deliberately misled anyone, but he felt like he'd been caught in a lie just the same.

"But –" Sing began something and then fell silent. When Eiji finally looked up, his friend's face was just recovering from its shocked expression. For a moment Sing studied Eiji, obviously wanting to say something, but in the end he just shook his head.

Eiji watched his bare feet as he stood and crossed the dark parquet floor. He listened as he went back up the stairs, listening to the floor creak as he followed the hallway into the bedroom. Eiji was grateful to be left alone.

His first time. Not Sing's, strangely enough – Sing had been popular with girls since before they met. But he might've been the first man. Eiji would be embarrassed if he weren't already overflowing with shame. Had he been thinking of Ash? Imagining him in his bed instead of Sing? Eiji didn't know – he couldn't remember.

He crossed the room and pushed open the window. It was a steamy night – hot even for August. No wind stirred the trees outside. No cars drove by, though Eiji could hear a siren wailing several blocks away. He perched on the narrow sill and tried to imagine Ash there with him.

"I didn't want this for you," he pictured Ash saying. It wasn't hard. Even after so long, Eiji remembered his face and voice perfectly. In his mind, Ash was sitting on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chin. His hair was muted and pale in the moonlight, his voice hoarse. "I wanted you to be happy."

He sounded sad. Disappointed. "I know," he imagined himself answering. "But I don't know how to be happy anymore."

"You used to laugh, and you were always busy with things." Ash's ghostly face smiled sadly up at him. "You didn't drink so much."

Eiji knew he used alcohol as an escape. He knew his life was empty now – nothing but work and drink and the occasional visits from friends who somehow still managed to care. They'd tapered off until Sing was the only one who came around regularly. Eiji wondered when he'd stop coming, too. Soon, no doubt. "I miss you," he told the imaginary Ash.

He'd done this a lot at first – had conversations with Ash in his head. Eiji knew it was pathetic, maybe even crazy, but it made him feel better. Even though it was just make-believe, for a little while he could convince himself that Ash was nearby, that they could talk the way they used to.

"You need to get your shit together," Ash insisted. His eyes flashed an impossible green in the darkness. "I didn't die so you could fuck up your life like this, and now you're pulling the kid into it." There was no anger in his tone, just undressed honesty.

Eiji's eyes flooded with tears, and his mental image of Ash grew hazy. Ash hadn't died for any reason. It was just a stupid thing that happened. "I'll do better," he promised, his words almost soundless.

Ash nodded. He smiled. Eiji's heart skipped at the perfect memory.

"Sing, huh?" The blonde's face was flushed with the same embarrassment that Eiji felt acutely.

"I wanted it to be you," Eiji admitted. They were words he wouldn't have dreamed of saying if it were a real conversation. If Ash hadn't died. "The first time."

For a long time Ash was silent. Because Eiji couldn't imagine what the real Ash would say. Would he laugh it off? Call him a fag? Neither option seemed right, but nothing else did, either. It wasn't the sort of thing they'd talk about. It wasn't the sort of situation they'd ever be involved in.

Too much time had passed and Eiji's words were lying in the air, chipping at his fragile calm. Eventually he put an answer into Ash's mouth. Words Ash wouldn't say, but what Eiji wanted to hear. "Me too." His voice was scratchy and low, dropping to almost a whisper as he made the admission. "I'm sorry I never –"

Eiji closed his eyes, unable to continue. There were half a million things he regretted never doing or saying with Ash. He knew he wasn't able to imagine Ash's regrets without his own bleeding into them. And if he started to believe – really _believe _– that they'd wanted all the same things, Eiji was afraid he'd forget how to remember Ash as he really was, the things he really wanted. Even the things that were a mystery to him.

He sat alone as dawn turned dark shadows grey. He still loved Ash. There wasn't room for Sing or anyone else while his heart was still so completely occupied by Ash's ghost. There wasn't even room for Eiji to love himself – he realized this even while acknowledging that he didn't know what to do about it.

When light spilled over the tops of the buildings and its pale glow flooded his living room, Eiji took a deep breath. It was time to change things, and he needed to start with his friend upstairs.

He walked slowly to his bedroom. The shades were drawn, the room blue with shadow. Sing sat in the middle of the bed, his knees drawn up to his chin. He was dressed in the jeans and t-shirt he'd worn the night before; his bare feet curled into the sheets.

"Sing."

The boy looked up, and Eiji could tell in a glance that he'd been crying. Not even bothering to rub the tears from his cheeks, Sing swung his legs over the edge of the bed and leaned over, fishing for his sneakers. "I'm going," he said in a low growl.

Eiji shook his head. "No," he insisted softly. "I was wrong."

The younger boy froze, gaping at him silently.

"Not about everything," Eiji amended, allowing what felt like the beginnings of a smile creep over his face. "What happened last night was a bad idea. It won't happen again." Sing's face fell into a neutral calm while he listened, and Eiji was nervous. "But I won't chase you out. You can stay as long as you want."

Sing blinked at him, confused. "I don't get it."

"All that stuff you said is true," Eiji admitted. "My life is not one to be proud of. Ash –" Saying it out loud hurt. It was as though that one little syllable took up all the courage he had inside of him, but he forced himself to continue. "Ash would not want this for me," he confessed softly. "But I have you, Sing. Until last night, being friends with you was the one thing I did right."

Sing ran a hand through his dark hair. "That wasn't your fault," he protested. "If I had known that you never – Anyway, I wouldn't've come on so strong. I knew you were drunk and –"

Eiji almost wished that he could let go at that – lay the blame on Sing and forget anything had happened. But it wasn't possible. He remembered enough to know he'd relished every touch. He shook his head in denial. "I don't want to talk about that," he said, cutting his young friend off.

"So we're supposed to forget about it?"

Something like a smile forced its way across Eiji's lips. "You know as well as I do that's not going to happen," he said ruefully. "Let's just say we won't let it influence our friendship from here out."

Sing looked skeptical. "So you're not kicking me out? We're gonna act that way we always did and pretend nothing happened?"

It sounded silly, but Eiji nodded. "I want you to feel like you can still come here whenever you want. Whenever you need to get away." Things weren't good with Sing's family since Lao died. He was often on the doorstep when Eiji came home after late nights at work, unwilling or unable to go home. "I'll give you a key and the extra room can be yours." There was an empty bedroom at the end of the hall – Eiji didn't have enough stuff even to use it as a storeroom, so it had been useless since he moved in. It would be soothing to have Sing's stuff collect there. Not so lonely.

Confusion etched Sing's face. "So wait – you're asking me to move in with you? But no sex? This ain't making much sense."

"I'm giving you a place to run to," Eiji clarified. "It's the same as always, but you won't have to wait outside. And –" The last bit was more difficult. "And we won't have to share a bed again, because you'll have one of your own."

He understood that close proximity wasn't what caused them to do what they had. He knew it'd been building, that Sing had a crush on him. He knew his own body had been yearning for physical contact with Ash, and that Sing was just a handy substitute.

It was clear that Sing understood, too, but Eiji watched as he decided not to challenge it. Instead, the boy nodded. "Thank you," he said softly.

Eiji reached down and took the hi-tops that had been dangling in his friend's hand since the conversation began. "Go back to sleep," he suggested gently. "It's been only a couple of hours, right?"

The boy's eyes widened slightly, but he let himself be pushed over until he was half-laying across the bed. "You're letting me sleep here?" he asked in a small voice.

"I'll take the couch this time," Eiji explained.

His answer didn't satisfy. Sing sat up, reaching out a hand to grab Eiji's wrist. "Stay here," he asked in a weak voice. Eiji shook his head "Nothing's gonna happen! I promise."

Eiji's stomach churned uneasily. "It's not a good idea."

"It's softer than the couch, and there's a lot of room," Sing insisted. He was already sliding over, making space on the queen-sized bed. "We won't even touch."

"Why?" He let himself be pulled down onto the bed next to the boy. He didn't understand why Sing wanted this, what he thought he could accomplish.

Sing let go and rolled away from him, curling up like a little kid. "It was your first time," he mumbled. Eiji had to strain to hear him. "It's not cool to sleep alone, after."

Eiji almost laughed, but found tears springing into his eyes instead. He lay on his own side of the bed, stiff and on his back, but conceding just the same. How many nights had he lay there, imagining Ash? How many nights had he lay close to Ash, imagining touching him, being with him? Those nights would be with him forever. "I'm never alone," he whispered, not even sure if Sing could hear him.

The bed creaked as the boy rolled over, breaking his promise right away by putting his hand against Eiji's bare chest. "Your heart beats fast when you think of him," he said after a while.

Eiji didn't want to encourage him by explaining that the rapid heartbeat was because Sing was there, because Sing was touching him. He reached out and moved the hand away. "I am always thinking of Ash," he explained softly. He turned on his side, away from Sing, and stared at the closet door across the room.

When he woke up he would take his cameras to the park. He would photograph the people there. The skyline. The trees and birds. Eventually he would pour out all of the alcohol and learn to rely on Sing the way he'd been relying on Imaginary Ash. He would get better.

He'd lived more than two years without Ash – that was already longer than Ash had been in his life at all. It was time to take a step toward remembering how to be the person his friend had wanted to protect. The person Ash had loved. Just one step – he'd take pictures – but more would follow.

Sing pressed his back against Eiji's, his t-shirt soft and too warm against Eiji's skin. The ceiling fan hummed, blowing hot air down around them in an imitation of a cooling breeze. Eiji didn't fall asleep for a long time. He longed for the dark comfort of restful sleep, for the way things used to be before he had so much to regret.

He closed his eyes and made a promise – to Ash and to Sing, but mostly to himself. He wasn't going to regret anything else. No more mistakes. No more missed opportunities. Once his eyes were closed, sleep came quickly, and for the first time in months, he slipped into dreamless darkness, his mind at rest.


End file.
